


Shifting Beams of Light

by oleanderhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, The Six Thatchers, spoilers s04e01, tst fixit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:29:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9204011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: And if the room was a bit darker, and Sherlock had not been standing just so in that shifting beam of light, John might have unleashed his poison.





	

The pain and guilt is burning him, shredding his insides, congealing in a granite mass that gets caught somewhere in his throat, refusing to be exorcised in a wail or a scream.

She is gone and there is _rage._ Rage at that bitty of a woman who didn’t even gain anything from the act, rage at Mary for being reckless, and rage at himself for —

_“You were my whole world...”_

— but she wasn’t his.

So when a hand tentatively brushes his shoulder, he lashes out with all that fury coalescing, sharp like the rapport of a gun.

“Don’t you dare!” he shouts, voice harsh and echoing off the glass walls of the aquarium. It takes him a moment to register who exactly that hand belongs to, and although it’s dark, John can see the fractured look of grief and surprise on Sherlock’s face. 

_Sherlock._

For a moment the rage inside him has found its target, and the words, serrated and poised, and so perfect press against the backs of his teeth. Words like

_You made a VOW._

and 

_You swore it._

and

_It’s your fault. All your fault._

and

_Anyone but you. Why you. Why whywhywhywhy_

And if the room was a bit darker, and Sherlock had not been standing just so in that shifting beam of light, John might have unleashed his poison.

But this isn’t the case.

Simply, John can see that face clear as day, bewildered and taut with emotion thinly repressed. It’s so human, and flayed, and in Sherlock’s eyes John sees something very familiar threatening to breach the surface of that famous control. A mirror: Guilt. A mire of it. A twisting, writhing mass of it.

Sherlock looks down at Mary’s crumpled body, frozen in horror, and his eyes shift back and forth in that way of his when he is piecing things together, and John sees the instant the conclusion sinks in — the way he closes his eyes shut tight, as if the pain is fracturing him even further. 

Revelation. The fact is, John doesn’t have to blame Sherlock; Sherlock’s already done it for him.

He sucks in a breath, observing this all within less than a second, and in that time a tear falls from Sherlock’s dark lashes leaving a silvery track down his pale cheek.

Suddenly, like a vacuum the rage is sucked back inside him, combusting and folding in on itself, making him cry out once more. It is an ugly sound, raw and primal, and he buries his face in the soft hair of Mary’s crown in an attempt to keep himself from imploding. She smells of familiar honeysuckle and Clair de Lune, and John isn’t sure if it’s comforting or cauterising.

John’s eyes are closed, but he opens them when he feels Sherlock shift, recoiling, turning away from him as if to go, and of all scenarios, this — the sight of Sherlock’s retreating back — is the very worst.

He unclenches his jaw even though the violent tremors in his frame want to force it closed again.

“Sherlock,” he breathes, rocking Mary’s cooling body against him.

Sherlock hesitates, red-rimmed eyes locking onto his.

_“Sherlock,”_ John says again, raising a shaking, blood-stained hand. It is almost too much of a feat, the whole world seemingly bearing down, crushing him.

The bluish light shifts again as Sherlock hastens forward, the ribbons and patterns of reflected water making his eyes nearly blaze silver. He falls to his knees and grasps John’s hand just as the weight of it becomes too much.

“I can’t — I can’t —” he gasps, twisting his hand in Sherlock coat, grappling for a solid hold. Sherlock’s steady grip encircles his bicep, and John feels the cement filling his chest crack, just a little.

_Don’t you dare…_ he thinks to himself through the murky fog of grief and shock. Somehow Mary’s been transferred out of his arms, and him into Sherlock’s, the texture of wool soft and welcome against his cheek, as teams of people rush to and fro. In the chaos, he can’t feel anything besides those arms, sure and warm and keeping him from drowning. 

_Don’t you dare blame yourself._

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock murmurs.

John holds on.

**Author's Note:**

> Re-watched t6t and still feeling pretty gutted. So here's my attempt at a bandaid. Can't wait for Sunday.


End file.
